


A Dragon Awoken

by Ramzes



Series: Targaryens: Times of Glory [6]
Category: A Song of Ice and Fire - George R. R. Martin
Genre: Gen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-07-27
Updated: 2014-07-29
Packaged: 2018-02-10 14:13:08
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 5,431
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2028093
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Ramzes/pseuds/Ramzes
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Daeron the Good built the castle of Summerhall in the Dornish Marches as a great royal residence. Later, it passed to his youngest son Maekar who maintained a household there. Why was Maekar chosen? What did being the Prince of Summerhall entail? An AU now where some elements are concerned.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. The Hatchling

**Author's Note:**

> he idea of this oneshot came from a question ariel2me asked, about why Maekar was given Summerhall despite being the youngest son. Admittedly, she did not ask it of me. I hope to keep this story short. In the best case scenario, it will be a twoshot. In the worst case scenario, it'll spread over... or remain a oneshot. I honestly can't decide which one would be worse!

 

 

 

The raven came at noon but it was on torchlight already when the King finally had the time to read the parchment. His brows knitted and his mouth tightened a little but else, he gave no indication of being moved at all. Silently, he passed the letter to the dark-haired man at his right.

Baelor Targaryen, the young Prince of Dragonstone, started reading silently and intently. He had the makings of a great ruler but he had indeed seen too few namedays. His feelings were blatantly clear. His eyes flashed angrily, so wide that the black almost swallowed the indigo, making him look more Dornish than ever.

"So," he said. "They've really overreached so?"

"Oh yes," King Daeron confirmed. "Now, Carron and Selmy and giving me this contrived excuse as to why they cannot pay their taxes fully... because they've been practically reduced to beg their bread by the side of the road by those Dornish villains..."

Baelor looked away, refusing the dragon who roared inside him free reign. The double offense made his blood boil. Did the marcher lords think that this excuse would really fly? The hostilities were entirely two-sided and the men of the Marches had never made a secret of how profitable they found the enmity with Dorne. Did they believe their king was so weak that he'd let them undermine his authority with such blatant lies? _Even Matarys won't believe this_ , Baelor thought, and that was quite something, for his new son was barely a moon old. And the insults against Dorne were another offense, against Queen Myriah and her children. Baelor was only too aware of the whispers trailing him like faithful hounds. _He isn't a Targaryen, he's all Dornish,_ men spoke… and he could tell them by name.

"And Ser Rolen cannot keep our authority over the region," he said.

"Indeed," Daeron agreed and preempted his son's next words. "I am not replacing him if that's what you have in mind. We have to find a way to renew the authority Summerhall once held… but he stays. I won't humiliate him by stripping him of his office."

"I wasn't going to suggest such a thing," Baelor snapped. Was that what the King really thought of him, that he's suggest taking back the reward they had given to one of their most capable men simply because he had grown old and feeble? Once again, he pushed the dragon firmly down. He was not going to start an argument with his father. That would solve nothing and anyway, a future ruler should be beyond such petty offenses.

They had to restore the position Summerhall had once held, and immediately. The strategic location of the castle had allowed Daeron to keep the peace between the realm's own struggling lords of the Stormlands and the Reach and maintain the royal authority over them, something that even King Aegon had recognized as important and keep a relatively good relations with Dorne as well, but now, with Daeron having moved to King's Landing, the stirring pot that this region tended to become each time the Iron Throne looked aside was starting to boil again. How much time would pass before the unrest turned out into outright loot, everyone grabbing whatever they could at the expense of the Crown? The refusal to pay full taxes was a very bad omen.

"We have to send someone there," Baelor said. "Someone who is strong enough to teach those brigands their place. Someone of high enough rank to make it look like his presence is bestowing honour to the region and not replacing Ser Rolen at all."

Daeron nodded impatiently. All of a sudden, Baelor felt uncomfortable. Of course his father had already thought about that. He had a lifetime of experience compared to Baelor.

"I can't carry it out," the young man said defensively, just in case Daeron thought he could. "I can't be here, _as well as_ Dragonstone, _as well as_ Summerhall."

"I agree." The King's voice was soft, thoughtful.

Baelor went to the table and poured wine for both of them to give himself time to think. "Maekar," he finally said. "You intend to send Maekar there."

"And invest him as Prince of Summerhall." Daeron sipped at his wine. "I'll have to talk to Aerys and I have to say, I don't anticipate this conversation eagerly. But I don't think he could handle the Dornish Marches even if he wants to. He isn't this kind of man."

_This kind of man._ Maekar was barely a man. He had seen only seventeen namedays. Baelor felt himself smile quite maliciously. A childish part of him wanted to steal to Summerhall, so he could witness the amusement of the unruly lords at having Daeron's stripling sent to rein them in. And their later stupefaction at finding themselves actually biting the bridle they could find no escape from. Maekar had only recently returned against a punitive actions against outlaws that had become quite the bother… well, that only served to prove the notion that the reward for a job well done was a new task, harder.

Would Aerys mind? Baelor didn't really expect it but who could say? They didn't have this much castles to give away, so it would make sense for Summerhall to go to the King's second son. But in fact, there was no tradition for such cases. Summerhall was a new abode, built for Daeron's own needs. It could be arranged.

"I think that's the best solution," Baelor finally said. "But you have to warn me when you're going to tell Mother so I can leave the Red Keep in advance," he added, grinning.

Daeron also smiled, albeit reluctantly. Indeed, Myriah would mind sending Maekar, with his lack of experience, to deal with men who had spent their long lives stirring trouble. And she's most emphatically mind having him live out of King's Landing. She was determined not to see the unpalatable truth: that their youngest didn't feel good around them. That he was not happy here. Daeron didn't like it better than she did and hoped that sooner or later, he'd have the chance to rebuild the bridges ruined by politics. But keeping Maekar here, where he didn't want to be, preventing him from putting his abilities to some good use and making something of himself was not the way. Just this time, politics might actually do something for Maekar, instead of it running only one way.

* * *

They arrived at Summerhall in the dead of night. The preparations for their arrival were not completed yet but Maekar Targaryen did not care. He only demanded a comfortable chamber where his lady wife could rest. As soon as that wish was accommodated, he went to inspect the castle by the light of a torch.

"Are you sure you don't want to have the castellan awoken?" Ser Galend Highill asked.

Maekar moved slightly aside, so his friend could fall in line beside him. "What can he do right now? Let him have his rest. The next few days will be intense ones, I expect."

They went on down a long hallway, passed by a huge hall, down a gallery with magnificent columns… Everything was so beautiful, well-kept and abandoned. All of a sudden, the one-time Essosi captive remembered the day he had first come here, with the entire court, many years ago, when everything had been lit by sun and laughter. Summerhall had been a royal residence then, a place that had awed him. It had also felt like a home, albeit a sporadic one. Now, the calmness brought him fear, much like the smallfolk they had encountered on their way here – harassed people who had barely dared to approach the party and acclaim them. Tormented, like the region itself. Almost dead which the region – thanks to R'hllor – wasn't.

"So you intend to tackle the matter immediately?" Ser Galend finally asked when they climbed the long staircase of a high white tower. Maekar had always liked coming here, on this roof where in broad daylight, the entire land around lay in his feet and at night, he could reach for the stars and catch them, almost.

In the stark moonlight, the Prince's face was grim and determined. His white teeth gleamed in half a smile and half a menace. "Of course. What would you have me do? Sit around and become their puppet? Dance on their strings?"

The idea of Maekar Targaryen dancing on anyone's strings was so amusing that the young knight smirked. His eyes followed a ray of moonlight spinning a luminescent thread for as far as his look could reach and then tried to penetrate the darkness beyond. _Take care, Marcher Lords_ , he thought to the invisible malcontents. _The Prince of Summerhall has come._

* * *

On the very day after his arrival, Maekar summoned all the Stormlords and every Reach lord living in the dangerous region known as the Dornish Marches at Summerhall in the King's name. He knew he had to tread with the greatest caution. Summerhall, as elevated as it was, was fairly young compared to those thousand year old Houses with their thousand year old grudges. For all the fealty they proclaimed to the Iron Throne, both Stormlords and men of the Reach would rather settle their grudges alone in the manner they preferred. Prince Daeron had put a temporary stop in their dynamic but as soon as they had seen his back, they had returned to their old ways. Maekar held no illusions that they'd be awed by his own presence. If he had been at least twenty… but no maester could speed time up. Still, he wanted to examine the situation in person and choose his course accordingly.

When in the appointed hour he entered the council chamber, he found the summoned lords and knights dispersed in groups, conversing in loud voice. There were only six men who had taken their seats on the long table, silent and respectful. Maekar walked to his seat at the head of the table but those who rose to show deference to their King's son were few. The rest of them kept talking, laughing, clanking their swords on the stone floor, and pretending that they did not see the Prince of Summerhall. He silently took his seat and it was only now that the clamour started to abate, replaced by hidden and not so hidden staring. Maekar could read the men's minds: _Is this who the King thought would humble us and bring us to our knees? This hatchling? He could have sent Fireball, at least. He must not prize this son of his very much if he's so willing to throw him to the wolves. We'll see how long this dragon lasts here before he runs away with his tail between his legs…_

He met their eyes with expression that was so stony that some of them actually stopped smiling. There was even something that resembled worry on a face or two. At least, Maekar hoped it was worry.

But a moment later, the doors were thrown open to admit Lord Steven Dondarrion, a burly, strong man in his forties, one of the most unruly among the marcher lords. He entered noisily and instead of going to Maekar and beg forgiveness for being late for a summon made in the King's name, rushed at Lord Bryen Caron who had taken what Maekar could only presume was Dondarrion's own seat, a little closer to the head of the table. In the matter of moments, the altercation was in full force, the two lords hurling abuse and threatening each other in front of Maekar. They were still going when another brawl started, a little further down the table, between two other men. Soon, the entire chamber echoed with shouts and curses, men had risen from their seats once again, some were calling each other names, others encouraged them and roared with laughter. This was no council of lords, it was a gathering place of drunken brigands.

Maekar stayed where he was, taking in the ugly scene in front of him. No doubt it was an insult to him but the fact that it wasn't even the main purpose, just a minor advantage, was even more insulting. He was not considered someone worthy of being offended deliberately and grievously. He could hear the words of mindless anger, hatred and envy, gloating and laughter. Sweat started dropping from his forehead, turning his hot cheeks cold. He had seen and heard such brawls many times in King's Landing, in King Aegon's great hall where it had amused his grandfather. But he had never seen such lack of restraint in a council chamber. His eyes turned a darker shade of violet and then almost indigo, lit by a dark flame. He rose and raised a fist. "Out!" he thundered.

There was a sudden silence. Maekar repeated again, his voice even uglier, more dreadful. "Out of here, you rabid lunatics. Out!"

On the door, the guards appeared. They had heard Maekar's shout. The Kingsguard who had come with him from King's Landing gave him a troubled look. Maekar shook his head, almost imperceptibly, and turned to the guard. "Take them out. Send them away. To the last man."

No one had expected such bravery from Maekar, this boy who had spent so many years as a political pawn in the silent battle between his father and grandfather. The men gathered here were so stunned that the guards herded them on like cattle amidst clank of weapons and faint murmur of discontent.

"Do you want me to go as well?" Ser Galend asked softly.

Maekar looked at him. "No," he said. "I want you to stay."

They spent the day and a good deal of the night talking. At one point, they moved to Ser Rolen's chamber where the sickly old man offered them his insights of the situation. He was well aware of the tension. He simply lacked the ability to counteract it.

"Ability," Maekar mused. "If that means men at arms, you can forget about it right now. I won't summon more of those because they can do the same. I was sent here to restore peace in the region, not expand the battleground."

"Sometimes," Ser Galend pointed out, "the road to peace goes through the battlefield."

"I know," Maekar agreed darkly.

It was well after midnight when he entered his lady wife's chamber. Just as he expected, Naeryn had already gone to sleep. The child in her womb sapped her energy and she lay very small and pale. Beads of sweat glistened on her forehead. Little Daeron was sleeping next to her and Maekar reached out to move him to the crib, so Naeryn would have more room but the child woke up and Maekar decided that he'd rather leave him here than have him start crying and wake Naeryn up. Instead, he drew the cover over them and stood by the bed, staring at them. Once again,a feeling of responsibility and dejected helplessness fought a furious battle within him. His father's voice echoed in his head once again. _Come back in one piece._ Everyone else had been trying to offer council, voice an opinion, convince him of the reason of their own suggestion of how he should deal with the crisis. The King had been the only one who had refrained. _It's up to you how you act_ , he had said. _That's why I invested you and not your brothers. Act in any way you see fit. Just come back in one piece._

Maekar smiled grimly. Ah the irony! The only way he could see might well lead to him not coming back in one piece. It might lead to him not coming back at all…

Once again, he made sure that Naeryn and Daeron were comfortable and went on to his own bedchamber to have a few hours of rest before he started implementing his plan.

 


	2. Spreading One's Wings

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> My inspirations says thanks to everyone who reviewed, you're a great help indeed.

The sounds of everyday life echoed all over Summerhall with the hollowness of lie, pretense, bleak hopelessness. Determined not to give way to her worry, Naeryn started making arrangements for her household as soon as she felt somewhat rested, on the second day after their arrival. Maekar gave her full leave to do whatever she wanted with the castle, so soon she started walking around the halls and making plans.

"What are you going to do?" she asked him one evening, two days after he had sent the marcher lords away.

"I'll do what I was sent here for," he said, an answer that told her nothing. She could see that he didn't sleep well. Behind his calm exterior, fury and offense raged.

It was clear that he wouldn't tell her, so she didn't insist. She only said, "Be merciful, Maekar. Please show mercy."

His first impulse was to take offense. How did she dare to think that he'd show needless cruelty? Who did she think she was? What did she take him for, a monster? But his carefully built habit to never let himself go in front of him stopped him from spatting the first thing that came to his mind. And a moment later, the answer came to him unbidden, making him stop, making him think. Naeryn was well aware of the situation, yet she did not seem to doubt that at the end, he would prevail. Maybe she just trusted him.

He reached for her hand and she smiled, pleased. He brought the slim fingers to his lips. Her smile widened.

"I will show mercy to those who deserve it and even to some who don't," he assured her. "You have me convinced, my lady."

She had no way of knowing that his unexpected pliancy had been brought on by a memory suddenly come alive to his mind, of another evening in this same chamber. A memory of a girl who resembled Naeryn so much that she could pass for her sister, standing near the window. _Sometimes, mercy is a curse_ , she said, _for it encourages people to behave as if nothing happened… and at the end, repeat the transgression._ There was always a limit to Aelinor's mercy. She gave a second chance but never a third one. Naeryn, on the contrary, could never refuse her forgiveness to anyone.

Maekar would show mercy… but before that, he'd show his determination.

This night, just like the two nights before, he spent deeply in thought. In Summerhall, he only had about a thousand swords, the best ones that he had chosen personally but… a thousand. Out of the marcher lords, he could rely on seven or eight. But he did not yield to the temptation of asking for men from King's Landing. The unruly lords could raise their banners openly and then he'd have a fully- fledged rebellion on his hands. Naeryn and Daeron might get hurt in the chaos that would reign in the Dornish Marches. There was only one option that was worse than that.

In the morning, he was apprised that many of the lords had gathered in Blackhaven, the seat of House Dondarrion, and stayed late into the night and on the roads, people had been noticed who had avoided every encounter with Maekar's men. There could be no doubt, the men intended to take the matters into their own hands and force Maekar into submission before he had the chance to start consolidating for real the power he had been officially given.

Naeryn was quite stunned when she heard that Maekar had sent word to all heads of noble and knightly Houses and invited them to supper the next day.

"They need time to set their plans in motion," was all that Maekar said. "And I have a plan of my own. Don't be afraid."

Of course, those soothing words only served to scare her more.

"Am I to come with you, Your Grace?" Ser Galend asked when it was time to go down and meet the guests.

Maekar shook his head. "Stay with Naeryn and Daeron. And don't leave your sword out of reach," he added in a low voice. He had already ordered his wife not to venture out of her chambers and placed additional guards at her door. The man of the Kingsguard looked quite resentful that he was to stay here, as well, but did not raise an objection. Maekar hadn't expected such a thing.

For a moment, Naeryn clung to him. "May the Warrior keep you safe," she whispered. Maekar had rarely seen her praying to any deity other than the Mother. He ran a hand over her hair and held her close before slightly pushing her away and heading for the door.

As he had hoped, all of the men invited came. He could see their smirks, read the victory in their eyes. He might be Prince of Summerhall, vested in all the power his royal father wished to give him but at the end, he had no experience. That was one of the reasons the marcher lords resented his arrival – he had done nothing to prove himself, yet he had been elevated above all of them by being entrusted to represent the King in the entire region when his entire merit was having been born to Daeron and Myriah. None of them would miss the chance to see him humbling himself in front of them… Indeed, looking at some of them, Maekar wondered whether they expected that he'd serve them their meals with his own hands.

The hall where the supper took place was richly decorated. The old Targaryen banners had been repainted and looked new, the dragons breathing almost a real fire at the gathering of men. _We're the blood of the dragon_ , Maekar thought. _They say that once, we_ were _dragons ourselves. And dragons bow to no one. Help me. All of you who had lived before me, help me keep my composure until my time comes…_ But composure looked ready to desert him when Steven Dondarrion and a few of the others entered the great hall in armour, however light, with swords in hand. They had clearly refused to leave them in the castle's armoury as per custom and traditions regarding royals. Still, Maekar got a grip over himself and welcomed them as politely as he did anyone else, despite feeling that their intentions could not be good.

There were twenty eight guests sitting at the long table. But the servants did not serve anything else than fresh bread and roasted meat. There were no entertainers and those who had hoped to see the Princess, having heard of her great beauty, were to be disappointed: the seat next to Maekar remained empty. There was no Dornish wine, no wine at all, and instead, the servitors carried around a few earthen jars of fresh water. The great hall was strangely silent – there were no merry conversations, no laughter, no drinking to anyone's health.

When finally most of the guests stopped reaching for the bread and meat, Maekar gestured at the cupbearer; immediately after, the servitors placed a silver goblet of Dornish wine and a sharp dagger in front of everyone. The guests starting trading looks, the faces of some of them quickly went white and Lord Dondarrion scowled darkly. Once again, Maekar gestured at the cupbearer who herded the servants in front of him, towards the main door. Alone with his guests, Maekar slowly rose. His impassive face betrayed nothing of the heavy thumping of his heart. Could he really do it? Could he severe their treason by the root? Would he be able to make them reveal themselves, show that they were committing treason? Would his trust in the precious few among them he thought he could rely on prove justified? Would it be enough? Would his desperate bid be winning? He had made preparations, just in case. Naeryn and Daeron would be safe, no matter what.

"I do hope you enjoyed the hospitality of Summerhall which is now my home," he started. "I apologize for the modest conditions but as you well know, there has been trouble keeping the crops in the smallfolk's own barns, so I had to think of my people first and unfortunately, that means that my guests won't receive the lavish hospitality they otherwise might have expected."

New trades of looks: everyone knew what Maekar was hinting at. Was it even a hint? Wasn't it an outright accusation, a mocking? The boy had teeth, it seemed. Or perhaps it was no teeth but a hint of his brother Rhaegel's madness.

"It is the King's wish that peace in the region be restored," Maekar went on. "And that's what I intend to do. I'd rather do it in a friendly way. I do understand that old grudges run deep and some hatreds are too great to govern on our own. But it cannot go on like this."

His voice was level, his eyes showing no more emotion than before. Again, the men started looking at each other. _Grudges and hatred. What do you know of grudges and hatred, with your sheltered life, boy? Do you even realize that your father has just thrown you to the wolves? Do you really think you can come here and start pushing us around telling us what to do just because you're a Targaryen? You won't last half a year before running back to King's Landing in shame._

"I have no taste for words and promises that don't have anything substantial behind them. Words are wind. Promises are snakes. And I don't intend to utilize either. That's how we're going to start, my lords: with honesty and clear declaration of intentions, whatever they might be. I've already done my share: I placed in front of each of you a goblet of wine, meaning friendship, cooperation, and prosperity of the entire region we share; I also placed in front of each of you a dagger, meaning that you're welcome to try and finish what you've started, undermining the King's authority and harassing nobles and smallfolk alike. Show me what you're going to do. Choose," he went on and this time he actually smiled. "Choose, you can see I am here, before you, and I'll meet you with a goblet of wine or dagger."

He lapsed into silence and some of the guests immediately raised their goblets; but in this very moment, Lord Dondarion pushed his goblet aside and slapped a hand over the hilt of his sword.

"Brave words," he spat. "From the one claiming the highest authority in the region, despite being what, fifteen?"

_Seventeen_ , Maekar thought and didn't say it. The man wouldn't care if he was seventy and seven – his very arrival would have still been taken as insult.

"He who speaks with the King's voice," Dondarrion went on, his voice becoming heated. "His Grace, a mere boy. Why should you be the overlord here? I will be, and I will be more worthier than you!"

The red blood that had been spilled on the table soaked in the tablecloth and dripped on the floor like blood from a gaping wound.

"I am the King's chosen," Maekar replied in an unfaltering voice amidst the profound distance that followed. "And you shameless man will never hold the highest authority here. Neither will someone else, for as long as I draw breath."

Dondarrion unsheathed his sword, as did everyone else who had come to enjoy Maekar's hospitality armed; in the blink of an eye, about ten people gathered around Dondarrion, bristled with anger. A few other guests drew back to the walls, scared; but everyone else grabbed the daggers left before them and closed ranks around the King's son, ready to defend him.

"Now," Maekar said, his voices rising for the very first time since the beginning of this feast.

Someone opened the main door, as well as the few side doors, and the spacious hall was filled with armed guards among those who had accompanied Maekar here from King's Landing.

"Take them away!" he ordered, inclining his head towards Lord Dondarion and his associates.

At his same moment, other of Maekar's peope were dealing with the retainers the lords had brought.

Early in the next morning, the men of the unruly lords were escorted to the boundaries of the grounds of Summerhall. No one had been harmed – they had just been relieved of their swords, maces, and whatever weapons they had carried at entering the castle. A few hours before, Maekar's people had ridden to the seats of the malcontents, suggesting remedy of the relationship.

"What are you going to do with them?" Naeryn asked as soon as she saw her husband for the first time this day.

"Stay put," Maekar said because she was pacing around anxiously, her lovely face shaded by the foreboding of the bloodshed that would come. "Take a seat. All this anxiety cannot be good for you. They aren't worth it. Calm down. No one will be harmed, except for those who committed downright treason."

But she could not abide sitting in her upholstered chair knowing what would happen. "They are human beings, Maekar," she said. "And they've been accustomed to this way of living for hundreds of years…"

Maekar forced his exasperation down. "Tell that to everyone who died in their petty fights for another goblet of silver," he said. "Tell that to the mothers with hungry babes to feed and no living husband to earn their living. It has been this way for hundreds of years, indeed. And it stops now."

His cold rage scared Naeryn more than his outbursts of fury because when furious, he wouldn't let anyone tell him their side but later, he would ask; when he was like this, all septons and septas in Westeros could gather to sing appeals of mercy and understanding and he'd let them but he wouldn't hear a thing, it would just glide straight past his ears. She fell silent.

Maekar reached out, stroked her cheek. In the bright sunlight, he looked invigorated, despite staying awake for the entire night and the day before. "They committed treason," he said. "They drew their swords against me as soon as I proclaimed my intention to restore peace in the region. That's double treason – they raised a hand against the blood of the dragon when I was here in my capacity as the King's representative. And they outright declared their intention to fight everyone who would dare try to stop their intention to keep drowning the land in blood. I cannot leave this unanswered."

"And you don't want to," she sniffled.

"And I don't want to," he confirmed.

All of a sudden, her own anger flared. "You tricked them into taking an open stance against you, so you can punish them according to the law, leaving them no room to wiggle out of it."

He didn't bother to deny it. "Or take a stance with me," he reminded her. "I gave them a choice."

Everything in Naeryn recoiled at being pushed against such a choice. It felt unfair to her, although she could see her husband's reasoning. It had been a clever move, indeed, forcing them into a choice they could not back off from, no matter what they chose. The heirs of the men who had drawn their swords against him would find little supports in a quest to avenge people who had committed such an act. And none of those who had stood with him last night could go back now, and the dispensing of justice and the executions that would follow would only cement it.

Maekar's face softened. "I am not doing this because I enjoy it, Naeryn," he said. "It simply needs to be done. The only ones that will suffer will be those who've been wreaking havoc here in years. I call it just."

Naeryn drew back, away from his palm. It was just, she knew it, but gods, how cold Maekar's justice was!

Before the sun reached its zenith, along the walls of Summerhall eight human heads appeared on the sharp end of long pikes. Faced with the choice to continue their pillaging which sooner or later would make them face Maekar on the battlefield and meet either defeat or the full weight of Daeron's anger if his son died here trying to restore the peace, or return to the King's peace at the time Maekar still needed their support, the malcontents had thrown their lot with the dragons.

 


End file.
